


Dorset Street

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Anger, Angst, Army, Disguise, Egypt, England (Country), Escape, F/M, Family, Friendship, Honor, Illegitimacy, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Nobility, Royalty, Secrets, Serial Killers, Shame, Slow Burn, Surprises, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22210432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1883. The dynamic duo's solitary case solved from that least-known of addresses where only Watson resided, Dorset Street. But that short thoroughfare stills play a role in wrecking the happiness of both men as Holmes's secrecy finally catches up with him. The shocked doctor feels that he has no choice but to put over a thousand miles between himself and the man he had thought to have been his friend.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mist_shadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mist_shadow/gifts), [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> New cases are marked ☼.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1883 **

**Interlude: Train Crash**  
by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire  
_Some things are beyond even those with special powers_

**Case 61: The Adventure Of The Speckled Band**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A serial killer stalks London and Holmes meets a ghastly woman_

**Interlude: Secrets And Lies**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Watson finds out one of Holmes's secrets, and departs for Egypt_

**Interlude: Secrets And Truths**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Holmes is wrong for once – he can feel worse, and now does_

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	2. Interlude: Train Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. There are some disasters that cannot – or should not - be averted.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire]_

As I have said before, many people think that having the Sight is a wonderful thing in that you can make your existence so much easier. But like so much of life it comes with a catch, namely that sometimes you _know_ that much as you want to, you cannot interfere. And when you have to watch your own twin brother get hurt - even if it is at least partly his own stupid fault - it _hurts!_

In the year that my brother met Watson there were three major railway crashed, all of which were to some extent caused by railwaymen not following safety rules. One of them, coincidentally just days before that meeting, was the Thorpe (Norwich) disaster in which the inexplicable actions of one man led to a train being sent onto a single-track section which he had been told another train was approaching down. What made this doubly horrible was not just the unnecessary deaths but the fact that he and his fellow station staff so quickly realized their error, yet had to stand there and just wait for the inevitable crash.

I felt much the same way with poor Sherlock. Despite the shocks (plural) that he had got the year before he seemed to feel that his life had come right, and that he would soon be moving into a third house with his best friend in the whole world. But as they so rightly say, secrets will out – and to be fair, several of his family members had warned him of the peril of keeping things from someone as honest and open as the good doctor. Just like those hapless station staff who could see the tail-light of the doomed train disappearing off into the mist and rain, I could only watch as my twin headed for certain disaster. 

But not before some untimely home improvements and a serpentine experience.....

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	3. Case 61: The Adventure Of The Speckled Band

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. A dead man throws a spanner in Holmes's and Watson's moving plans, while a serial killer sets a pattern that threatens to end in a royal assassination attempt. And for a certain English city doctor, trouble is coming down the street.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the Dorset Street case.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: The steamship 'Arizona' mentioned in this story was one of many ships serving the transatlantic trade at this time, having been launched four years before the events herein described. Just months into her career she had had a head-on collision with an iceberg but had survived, a largely unnoticed event at the time but one which gained rather more significance when a second and much larger ocean liner was decidedly less fortunate just under three decades later. There has since been much speculation that the 'Titanic' might have survived or at least stayed afloat long enough for the 'Carpathia' to have reached her had she done the same; the experts, as ever, are divided on the issue. In related news, the sky is still blue.

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I have said that my blue-eyed genius friend and I lived together in three homes during his illustrious career; Montague Street, Cramer Street and of course Baker Street. However our next adventure which in my original stories was set as our first in 221B was in fact solved from elsewhere. This was due to matters that at first I had thought to be merely architectural but which would turn out to be the harbinger of a major change in my life. A most painful major change.

The initial problem came about because of the late Mr. William Hudson, whose untimely passing had brought his pistol-packing widow and her Baker Street home into our lives. We were due to leave Cramer Street in the third week of March and there had been no problem about our taking up accommodation in 221B – except that the late Mr. Hudson had without informing his wife arranged for a firm of local builders to renovate the very rooms that we were to take, and unfortunately the first she knew about it was when she arrived home the day before we were due and found the place in turmoil. Even more unfortunately the men had been instructed to replace the main window and had already knocked out the old one. Had I not been so gravely inconvenienced I might have felt pity for the poor workmen on the receiving end of our future landlady's ire!

Obviously we could now not move in for some little time yet were in sudden and urgent need of rooms. Mrs. Hudson, bless the woman, quickly went round her contacts but the best she could find was a Mrs. York who had a single room available in Dorset Street, a short walk from both Cramer Street and the surgery. After a discussion it was agreed that Holmes would go to live at his parents' house for a month (the face he pulled at that prospect was memorable!) while I lodged in Dorset Street. Mrs. York proved a wonderful landlady and I regret both that she did not possess a second room and that my memories of the place were soured by events during my short time there. 

Dorset Street, named for the county, is a road of approximately three hundred yards in length running from Gloucester Place in the west and crossing (Lower) Baker Street along with various other roads before it turns sharply south by the Gardens and becomes Manchester Street. (Before the Gardens had been built it had continued across into what is now Moxon Street, off which Cramer Street lay). My readers will of course wonder as to why I did not originally mention my time there in the ensuing story but dear Mrs. York was a deeply shy lady who had an abject horror of publicity, and when I eventually came to publish this case I first travelled back there to assure her that I would not mention her house in any way. It was the least that I could do; she saved me at a time when circumstances had threatened to leave me homeless, and despite the misery that did subsequently ensue I would always be grateful to her.

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During my enforced separation from my friend I had taken to breakfasting at Dorset Street from Monday to Friday and going to Holmes's family's house on weekends. On weekday evenings he would come to my house whenever he could, although not having him in my life all the time was proving surprisingly trying. Thank the Lord that it was not permanent.

“There has been another death.”

I looked down despairingly at my excuse for a breakfast, and wondered which of Holmes's brothers had upset the cooking staff this time. I would have not thought it possible to have crammed so many culinary disasters onto one plate but somehow someone had managed it. Quite what the brown-black thing looking like a shrivelled lettuce leaf gone wrong was supposed to have been, I had no idea. The sole mercy was that it was not moving!

Unfortunately I could all too easily guess my friend's meaning this cold spring morning.

“Who was it this time?” I asked.

“A Mr. Heinrich Schmidt, a member of the German Embassy”, Holmes said gravely. “Just as before, a dead snake skin was placed on the victim's body.”

I nodded. This was the third such attack each on a German or German-born person in London. The first had been four weeks ago when a maid had been stabbed to death on a train in south London. The second had been two weeks back when a bank clerk had been murdered in his own house. That had been not long before our move out of Cramer Street and the ensuing confusion, so I had not paid it as much attention as I might otherwise have done.

“Evenly-spaced attacks”, I observed. “The killer is trying to instil fear.”

“Not just trying but succeeding”, Holmes said, waving the paper at me. “The Editorial advises all Germans who can to make shift out of the capital until he or she is caught.”

I could not but agree. Relations between London and Berlin had been tense ever since the Franco-Prussian War twelve years prior, when Europe had been shocked to see German troops marching into Paris (the German Empire had only united some five years prior to that). Ever since then it had been an open secret that the Kaiser was aiming to detach Great Britain from its new friendship with France, helped by the fact of our dear Queen's eldest daughter Victoria marrying the Kaiser's son and heir Prince Frederick. Someone deliberately targeting German citizens in the English capital would not help matters.

“The Kaiser's son and his wife are coming to London the week after next, to visit the Queen”, Holmes said. 

I was about to answer when I realized the implications of what he was saying.

“You do not think that they would dare to attack royalty?” I asked, shocked.

“Consider the victims”, Holmes pointed out. “We had a maid, a working-class bank clerk and a middle-class diplomat. If the 'Speckled Band Killer' moves logically then their next victim in two weeks' time should be upper-class.”

“But the security will be incredibly tight!” I insisted.

“As I often say, the attacker has all the advantages in this situation”, he said calmly. “They can choose the precise time and place of their strike and those defending can only hope they have covered all possible lines of attack, something doubly difficult when dealing with a monarch who insists on not being kept from her people. No, this must be solved as a matter of urgency!”

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I had had another busy Friday at the surgery and was not pleased when I was asked to take an extra patient for a pregnancy test after my leaving time. Though when she entered the room I was surprised to see that I recognized her.

“Miss MacLeish?” 

It was indeed the lady whose sister and cousin had met their tragic but deserved ends in the Tay Bridge disaster some four years prior at the end of the Musgrave Ritual Case. I had read that she had married Mr. Cynric Musgrave just prior to his brother quitting his title and emigrating, and had not been surprised. She smiled knowingly at me.

“It is Mrs. Musgrave now”, she corrected. “Dear Cynric wanted me to come for an official pregnancy test, even though....”

She looked knowingly at me. 

“You already know, do you not?” I said with a sigh.

“A healthy baby boy, seven pounds and one ounce”, she smiled. “But Cynric tends to have a panic attack when I do that, so I decided to make it official for the dear.”

I wondered why she had not gone to her own doctor but it was not my place to ask. Instead I gestured her over to the screen.

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I handed Mrs. Musgrave her results.

“Positive”, I assured her. “Everything looks good.”

She smiled.

“Cynric and I are living in Gloucestershire now”, she said as she made to leave. “A small place just outside Stow-on-the-Wold. When his brother left he did not want to move back to Scotland, so he sold The Hard Place to a school and we have a much nicer house instead. We are visiting friends in the capital.”

She stopped and looked hard at me, her hand on the door.

“Hard times are coming, doctor”, she said, a note of warning in her voice. “Before this month is out you will find that someone that you trust has lied to you most dreadfully. But remember, all is not always what it seems.”

She was gone before I could reply. I stared after her in confusion.

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The next day I went to Holmes's house as usual to find that his rooms there had apparently been visited by a small tornado. There were newspapers everywhere and my friend sat in the middle of them making notes.

“I am trying to deduce a pattern from the first three murders”, he said. “Unfortunately the tendency of the average London journalist to exaggerate makes it hard to sort the grains of wheat from the granaries of chaff!”

“It all seems very odd”, I said making a mental note to clean up the mess if I got the chance (to be fair he had become a bit tidier since I had started organizing his notes for him, but these bursts of energy when he wanted to find something were still devastating to any sense of order). “As you said, if someone wishes to harm the princess then placing it in a sequence of murders will only make those around her increase their security.”

Holmes squinted at me thoughtfully. As far too often I had the feeling I had said something important, and as far too often not the first clue as to what.

“Tell me about the victims”, I said clearing some of the mess off a chair so that I could actually sit down.

“The first was a Miss Gertrude Wells, parlourmaid to the Hope family of Clerkenwell”, he said. “Twenty-four, single and of good character, she had been with them for two years and was thought of as quiet but a good worker. She was stabbed to death in her carriage on a London, Chatham & Dover Railway train near Swanley Station, and a dead snake skin from the species known as the Speckled-Band Cobra had been laid across her body. No-one benefited much from her death; she had but a few pounds saved which went to her mother with whom she was on excellent terms. Her father had come from Germany but her parents had divorced and her mother had brought her to England two years after her birth. She has since remarried and is well enough off.”

“What about the victim's employers?” I asked hopefully.

“Mr. Hope is deputy manager at a stonemason's in the Minories while Mrs. Hope stays home and cares for their three children. Bearing in mind how difficult it is to find good servants they had no apparent motive. I did inquire as to whether the girl had been seeing someone but she had not been.”

He flipped over a page on his notepad.

“The second victim Mr. Russell Brent is a little more interesting”, he said. “He lived with his brother David and worked as a clerk in a warehouse, where by all accounts he was not very well regarded. He was shot rather than stabbed, and again a snake-skin was placed on the dead body. The 'Gazette' took great pains to make sure their readers knew that there had been an estrangement between the two brothers over an inheritance from an uncle in Germany which had gone solely to David as the elder of the siblings.”

“A different method of killing”, I noted.

“Shooting the maid on a suburban train would have been all but impossible”, he pointed out, “particularly in third-class where the dividing walls, assuming that there are any, are paper-thin. Mr. Brent was killed at home in the afternoon and the house he and his brother jointly owned is somewhat isolated. His brother David works as a clerk for Hampden & Pitt's Bank in St. Paul's. Mr. Russell Brent left him some family jewellery that he had inherited from their mother – she had specifically requested this - but the will he made last year left everything else including his half of the house to a nephew Master John Bridge, the eleven-year-old eldest son of the brothers' sister Mrs. Bridge who lives up in Lancashire. However he cannot sell it without Mr. David Brent's permission.”

He flipped over another page.

“So to the most recent victim Mr. Heinrich Schmidt”, Holmes said. “A singularly unpleasant young fellow by all accounts. He was disliked by his neighbours and work colleagues alike for his generally superior attitude and had already been warned over his conduct at the Embassy, which given what diplomats can get away with these days says rather a lot. His landlady had also given him notice to quit for disturbing the other tenants by playing his trumpet badly all day and night.”

“One cannot murder someone for playing an instrument badly”, I muttered, glancing covertly across at the violin resting on the table. Not covertly enough judging from Holmes's narrowed eyes and indignant huff.

“He too was shot”, Holmes said looking at me with the same kicked puppy look that I had always thought was just unfair. I sighed.

“I am sorry”, I said. “Do you seriously expect someone to attack the princess, or even the Queen herself?” 

“I fully expect some sort of attempt to be made”, he said. 

That worried me. Because Holmes was usually right about these things.

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A week passed during which Holmes seemingly made little progress on the case. Work at the surgery continued to be heavy and I became used to arriving home well after my time. Until the following Friday when I managed to get out only ten minutes late and hurried home, looking forward to a long weekend in. 

I was barely through the door however when Mrs. York accosted me. I groaned inwardly, the lady's one failing was the ability to talk without any apparent need to draw breath. I prepared my excuses for a quick escape.

“I just thought that you should be forewarned, sir”, she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Your friend Mr. Holmes is in your room and he has been..... strange.”

I looked at her expectantly. _That was it?_

“Mary took up a telegram earlier”, she said. “I did not of course read it but I could see that it had come from abroad; it had some foreign flag on it. She gave it to your Mr. Holmes, he read it, then he tore it into shreds and threw it in the fire. And he.... he uttered an obscenity!”

 _Seven Hail Marys for that_ , I thought. Though now I came to think of it I had never really heard Holmes swear before, which given his family was quite something. I wondered what had been in that telegram.

Mrs. York was still looking at me. Evidently there was more. I braced myself.

“The boy who brought it, he said he had to wait to see if there was a reply”, she said. “When Mary came back downstairs and told me what had happened I had to tell him no, and he said it was always a pleasure bringing a telegram for you, sir, because you had looked after his mother one time.”

I stared at her in astonishment. Holmes had destroyed a telegram sent to _me?_ Why?

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As a doctor it takes a lot to unnerve me. But Holmes that evening..... he managed it and then some! I had had no idea what to expect from our landlady's strange description of whatever had happened, but what I found was......

Nothing. He sat there for the best part of half an hour, not even taking a barley sugar. I poked the fire occasionally but did not say anything; I was waiting for him to speak. 

Which he finally did.

“Watson”, he said, his voice almost supernaturally calm, “if I asked you to do something... irregular, would you still do it?”

Not for the last time in my life, my mouth went charging full steam away from the platform before my brain was even on the station concourse.

“Of course”, I said loyally.

“Hold me!”

“Pardon?” I stared at him incredulously. He looked back at me and I realized just how miserable he really was.

“Hold me”, he said mournfully. “I'm... so cold. So terribly alone. _Please?”_

I suppose that there were all sorts of reasons why I should not have yielded to his request, but he was my friend and he was clearly in pain. I went and sat on the couch and he sidled up to me looking almost incredulous that I had said yes. Gently he sat down and eased himself into me until I was wrapped around him.

A sigh that was almost a cry of pain nearly broke me and I pulled him in closer. What one earth had happened? And what the blazes had been in that damn telegram?

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I woke the following morning feeling exhausted. Holmes had stayed to share my dinner – I owed Mrs. York for providing an extra meal at such short notice – then I had held him again until it was my bedtime. He had returned to his own house but I had not been surprised to find him waiting for me when I emerged from my room the following morning. Unusually for him he remained behind his newspaper; I sensed (correctly as it turned out) that whatever had made him so upset the day before was Not To Be Spoken About and I did not know whether to be sorry or glad about it.

It was Saturday which was not a day on which Mrs. York would normally have provided me with breakfast, but I found a note pushed under the door advising me that two meals would be available if we so required. I silently thanked our landlady for that. We ate in silence, the tension between us palpable. I wanted to ask him about that telegram but.... he did not so much frighten me as make me fear that any questions now might elicit heaven only knew what sort of response. I kept silent.

I fully expected Holmes to go out that morning if only to avoid any chance of discussion as to recent events although he surely knew me well enough to realize that John Hamish Watson talking about Feelings was as likely as hell freezing over, but he did not. It turned out that he was expecting a visitor who mercifully arrived early. It was an anaemic-looking blond fellow in his early thirties, very much the sort of person (I thought) who is destined never to make much of an impression on life.

“Mr. Jacob Westbury”, Holmes explained as I sat down. “Thank you for coming, sir. You work at the same bank as Mr. David Brent?”

He nodded, though I did not see the relevance. Holmes continued.

“You told me when we spoke that Mr. Brent started back yesterday”, he said quietly. 

The man seemed spooked by the question judging by his flinch, but he answered readily enough.

“Yes, sir.”

“How did he seem to you?” Holmes asked.

Our visitor seemed puzzled by the question.

“I do not understand.....”

“Was he well?” Holmes asked. “Pale? Worried? Anything unusual?”

“Just a bit out of it, sir”, our visitor said. “His brother's murder. I suppose.”

“How do you mean, 'out of it'?” I asked.

“Alice – Miss Barling – made everyone a coffee while he was there and he put sugar in his. I asked him when he had started taking it and he looked startled, then he said it reminded him of his brother. It was all a bit... weird. He seemed not all there but I suppose it was the shock. They say it affects people in odd ways, or so I read once.”

“Of course”, Holmes said flatly but I could see the light in his eyes which told me that he was on to something. “How had his appearance changed?”

“Pardon?” Our guest was confused.

“I presume he had a beard or something?” Holmes said.

I looked at him in confusion. How on earth could he have known that? Yet our visitor nodded.

“Yes, he had grown a beard – Miss Barling thought that it looked frightful although of course she did not say as much to him – and he had cut his hair short. But how did you know that?”

“I would rather that you tell me about the bonds”, Holmes said calmly.

I leaped up when the man went a deathly shade of white and shuddered in his chair. I quickly poured him a brandy and held it to his lips until he had drunk some of it. Slowly his breathing stabilized and he looked at Holmes in shock.

“Who told you?” he gasped, his voice unnaturally high.

“I just knew”, Holmes said airily. “I assure you, nothing that you tell us will leave this room. Please go on.”

The man shook again.

“Recently we had the opportunity to purchase an American bank and establish ourselves in the United States”, he said. “But to do so we needed to ship a large number of gold-backed bonds over there to convince the American authorities of our good faith. That is why a large part of the bank's money is currently sat in a safe in our strong-room. It is not bruted about of course but it is a workplace so... people just know.”

“Who has access to it?” Holmes asked.

“Only the branch manager Mr. Ronaldson”, Westbury said. “There are two keys on two sets but the second one is kept at our head office. I was told once that they are kept in one of those safes that can only be opened with two keys each belonging to a different person, but I do not know if that was true.”

Holmes nodded.

“Thank you, sir”, he said. “Do you happen to have Mr. Ronaldson's address?”

“I only know that he lives somewhere in north Kent, I am afraid”, our guest said. “But Miss Barling lives over the bakery – it is called Sweet Nothings although she says that it is quite good despite that – and that is directly opposite the bank in front of Great St. Paul's. She would know it.”

“Good. We will detain you no further, and as I have promised we will say nothing of this meeting to anyone. Good day.”

My friend handed the man an envelope which I could see contained some coins, and he departed. 

“A good fellow but a trifle naïve”, Holmes observed after he had left. “If I recall the princess and her husband are due to arrive at Victoria Station early on Monday?”

“Yes”, I said. 

“Then regrettably we must break the Sabbath and persuade Mr. Ronaldson to open his bank today.”

I looked at him in confusion.

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Extracting Mr. Ronaldson's address from Miss Barling proved a tortuous affair but eventually even she succumbed to Holmes's charms – all right, she was simpering at him before we even sat down! - and having sent a telegram requesting the manager's urgent presence we adjourned to sit outside the magnificent cathedral. After what seemed an interminable wait a hansom drew up and a short, balding middle-aged man alighted looking frantically about him. Holmes nudged me and we got up and crossed to meet him.

“Mr. Montague Ronaldson?” Holmes asked.

“I presume that you must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, the fellow said testily. “I sincerely hope that there is a good reason for you dragging me away from a most delicious luncheon?”

“If preventing the theft of those bonds that you have in your bank's vaults qualifies as a 'good reason'”, Holmes said calmly, “then yes.”

He really had to stop having that effect on people. Mr. Ronaldson swayed violently for a moment but managed to catch himself.

“If this is some sort of joke, gentlemen.....”

“I merely need you to open your bank, go to the safe and check that the bonds are still there”, Holmes said. “My friend and I will remain here if that eases your mind at all. Kindly return to us when you have finished.”

The manager stared at him for a moment but evidently decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and hurried off to the bank's huge doors. 

_“Have_ the bonds been stolen?” I asked after a while.

“I hope not”, Holmes said. “Though I doubt that our portly friend will be able to tell us.”

“Why? I asked.

Holmes's reply was prevented by the sound of approaching footsteps and I looked up to see the manager almost sprinting towards us. Quite impressive given his figure.

“Gentlemen, I do not understand”, he said. “I do not know how it has happened but....”

“Your keys do not fit in the vault locks”, Holmes finished for him.

The manager stared at him in horror. He looked like he might need my professional services sooner rather than later.

 _“How could you know that?”_ he demanded.

“When are the bonds to be transported to America, sir?” Holmes asked.

“Thursday week aboard the 'Britannic', from Liverpool”, the manager said.

“Is that fact widely known?”

“Not directly”, he said, “but the staff all know that they are to be sent to America some time this week so they may be able to work it out. There are not that many ships suitable, sir.”

Holmes pursed his lips.

“I wish you to mention on the bank floor early tomorrow morning that the bonds are to leave first thing Tuesday”, he said. “Say that because your American friends demand it you have switched to the 'Arizona' which sails on that day. I believe that an attempt will be made to take them and I would force the hand of the thief.”

“But who is the thief?” the manager asked.

“That is difficult to explain at present”, Holmes said. “I am afraid that this ties in with the recent murder of Mr. David Brent's brother.”

“You cannot think that he is involved!” the manager said hotly. 

“I am absolutely certain that Mr. David Brent will _not_ attempt to steal the bonds”, Holmes said silkily.

Not for the first time I had the distinct impression that there was more to my friend's words than met the eye. One day I would be smart enough to work out what.

And one day they would land men on those two little moons that they had just found around the planet Mars. Hah!

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I looked out of our hansom in surprise.

“I thought that we were headed back to your parents' house”, I said.

“I decided that it would be better to call in on LeStrade first”, Holmes said mysteriously. “It is better if these things are done through official channels.”

I had no idea what 'these things' might be but I nodded anyway. Hopefully he would explain things later. 

As it turned out LeStrade was on a case at another station so Holmes left him a note and we adjourned to a restaurant for a late Sunday roast. Whatever the message was it had been an important one for a telegram from the sergeant was awaiting our return. Holmes read it and smiled.

“All is well”, he said. “Watson?”

“Yes?”

“My unlovely brother Randall is coming round tomorrow afternoon to discuss a somewhat delicate family matter. I do not suppose that you could possibly take a walk for an hour or so? He is due here at two-thirty.”

“Of course”, I said, a little put-out but determined not to show it. Though judging from his slightly crestfallen expression I failed in that ambition.

And I had still not plucked up enough courage to ask him why he had destroyed that telegram. _My_ telegram.

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I had a full day at the surgery on Monday, which was exhausting. At around mid-day news reached us that someone had indeed fired shots at Princess Victoria and Prince Frederick although neither had been hurt. The incident had happened as they had been alighting from their train at Victoria Station during the start of the morning rush-hour, so the assailant had been able to get away in the crowds. 

I arrived back in Dorset Street at my usual hour to find Holmes waiting for me.

“I see shots were fired at the princess”, I said. 

“Yes”, he said. “ LeStrade has his man.”

“The gunman?” I asked.

“And the killer of those three other people.”

“What?” I almost shouted. “Who was it?” 

“Mr. Russell Brent.”

I stared at him in shock.

“But.... he was one of the victims!” I protested.

Holmes sat me down and handed me a whisky. I needed it.

“Mr. Russell Brent knows from his unwise brother's gossip of the impending arrival of the bonds at his brother's bank”, he explained. “So he hatches a cunning plan. First he kills an innocent maid who he knows is German-born. Because he understands how modern newspapers love the sensational he leaves a rare dead snake-skin on her body, one of several that he stole from a museum during his last visit to Germany. He wishes to establish that this is a _sequence_ of attacks and not to draw attention to the target crime which will be the second one. Hiding a leaf in a forest may be a cliché, but it is often effective.”

“Two weeks after that he strikes again, this time somewhat closer to home. We had been told merely that Russell and David Brent were brothers. It was only when LeStrade obtained a photograph of the two for me that I realized how similar they were in appearance to each other, despite being some three years apart in age.”

A light began to dawn.

“Mr. _Russell_ Brent kills his brother and again leaves a snake-skin on the body. He then switches identities with him. After the body of Mr. _David_ Brent has been laid to rest in Germany under the name of his murderer, Mr. _Russell_ Brent is ready for his main aim, the theft of the bonds that he knows from what his late brother so unwisely told him are in the bank's vaults. He is not immediately expected back at the bank and he will wish to minimize his time there to avoid detection. He also has time to commit the third murder which will further draw attention away from the removal of his brother.”

“Surely someone at the bank would have spotted that he did not know what he was doing?” I objected.

“Any errors would likely have been put down to shock”, Holmes said. “Remember, Mr. Westbury thought that about the mistake he made with the sugar in the coffee although he covered for it well enough. That is why I wished Mr. Ronaldson to expedite the theft by stating that the bonds were to be moved sooner than expected. Suddenly our killer has only one day to strike although fortunately for him it is the day of the fourth attack which will of course be unsuccessful. Besides, he has the keys to the safe.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “How?”

“He has seen the keys so he knows what they look like, one small and one large key kept on their own chain”, Holmes said. “He had a copy made then when he went to the bank on Friday he likely feigned illness and asked for a glass of water. Mr. Ronaldson fetched it for him and in his absence the keys were swapped.”

“So that was why Mr. Ronaldson's keys did not fit!” I exclaimed. Holmes nodded.

“The whole scheme was devilishly cunning”, Holmes said, “as he knew full well that people would spot the series and focus on the royal visit as the real target. He goes early to Victoria Station and I would hazard that he gained a position high up; the sound of gunfire would echo off that great roof would make locating a shooter difficult if not impossible. It was easy to happen past the scene of the attack shortly afterwards and drop both a used cartridge case and a dead snake-skin. I am only glad that he did not seek to complete the illusion with a further dead body.”

I shuddered at that.

“He then goes to the bank where he discovers to his annoyance that the bonds are to be moved tomorrow. Still, that is not a problem. He has some little time back established a small cubbyhole for himself in a store-room, somewhere that he can stash the bonds for twenty-four hours. LeStrade confirmed this and that the room had a small slatted window opening out onto the back of the bank. He would have retrieved the bonds in the small hours of tomorrow morning once the hue and cry had died down.”

“That is brilliant!” I said. “They have him!”

“LeStrade caught him coming out of his back-room just before closing”, he said. “He still had the platform ticket from the station this morning. He is as good as hung.”

Before I could congratulate him further there was a knock at the door and a maid entered, bearing a full English breakfast. From which someone most definitely deserved all of the bacon.

“That is just perfect!” I smiled. Another criminal had bitten the dust, and I had the best and cleverest friend in the world.

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A world that was less than half an hour from falling apart.

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	4. Interlude: Secrets And Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. Oops?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I was finishing off my delicious breakfast-cum-dinner after the successful conclusion of the Speckled Band Case when it happened. Mary brought up a card from a gentleman waiting downstairs, and when Holmes took it his face went white for some reason. I thought for a moment that he was going to refuse whoever it was but instead he shrugged his shoulders and passed the card to me.

“'Doctor Edward Watson of the Hallamshire Irregulars'”, I read. “It might be the cousin that I have never met; our mutual grandfather Captain Saul Watson was at Waterloo if I remember.”

He did not respond and seemed lost in thought, so I asked Mary to escort the gentleman up. A few moments later she returned with a fellow of about forty years of age and definitely of a military bearing. He had some facial resemblance to myself, black curly hair, and as he crossed to the sofa I noticed a slight limp. More worryingly, I noticed Holmes. He was looking everywhere but at our visitor.

_What the hell was going on?_

Our visitor sat down and stared first at Holmes and then at me in silence. Finally he spoke.

“You destroyed my telegram?”

This was clearly aimed at Holmes, who seemed ashamed for some reason. Yes, he had burned that telegram and presumably it had come from this gentleman. But why?

“You must be my cousin, sir”, I said politely. “Is there a reason for your visit, may I ask?”

The other Doctor Watson looked again at Holmes. There was open dislike in that look, and for some reason my friend was not challenging it.

“Have you run across a Mr. Teledamus Newton yet?” our visitor asked.

“We have”, I said. “I know he is Holmes's half-brother, the result of a brief affair that his father had with some woman between his first and second marriages.”

“That woman was your Aunt Cassandra”, our visitor said coldly, “which makes Mr. Newton a cousin of all of us here assembled. Sorry though I am to say it as I have read your stories and I know that you rate the fellow over there, but he knew that fact and he kept it from you. Just like he kept my telegram from you.”

I stared at him in shock.

“But why?” I asked bewilderedly.

“Tell him”, our visitor said shortly. “Stop lying to the fellow. He is supposed to be your friend, damnation!”

“He _is_ my friend.”

Holmes's voice sounded oddly flat. I had the unsettling – and horrible – feeling that he did not really mean it. There was a painful silence.

“You must have heard of a Lieutenant Sacheverell Watson?” our visitor asked at last.

I was about to say no when I remembered it. I had mentioned it to Holmes only the other week after the case of Mr. Newton – yes, Sacheverell Watson was the traitorous villain who had nearly lost us the battle of Waterloo by refusing to obey an order at a critical moment. He had been slain by his deputy who had led the men instead, and the great Wellington hi,self had become involved in the case to prevent action being taken against the killer. Holmes had promised to ask Miss St. Leger to check to see if I was any relation to that blackguard and he had come back to me two days later and told me that I was not.... 

_Oh Lord! No!_

Our visitor nodded.

“Your grandfather”, he said, destroying my ruined world even further. “He had two children, both bastards as you might have guessed; your father Henry and your Aunt Cassandra. My grandfather – your adoptive one - Saul took them on and passed them off as distant kin. Doesn't make you and this fellow blood relations but then family tells each other the truth in my opinion.”

I swallowed hard. This was terrible! Holmes, Holmes of all people, had lied to me! He had known of this social disgrace that was the certain end of my medical career, and he had kept it from me!

“My grandfather raised the two of them along with my his own children”, our visitor went on, “including my father after whom I was named. Grandfather Saul had been injured at Quatre Bras, the battle fought just before Waterloo, and the scandal finished his career; no-one would ever trust a Watson with a weapon after that. That was why I had to become a doctor to join the Army; even over half a century on the stain is still there.”

I turned to Holmes, who had barely said a word.

“You knew all this”, I challenged. “Why did you not tell me? Were you ashamed? Did you think that I could not cope or something?”

“He likely wanted things to carry on as they are”, my cousin said sharply. “Trouble is, in this world they rarely do. That is the other reason I wanted to speak to you, cousin.”

“What?” I asked.

“This started to come out when your Great-Uncle Edmund died last year”, he said. “This fellow's father got his son and nephew to sort through his papers; the latter fellow, a Mr. Garrick, found out the link and confirmed it, then sent me a couriered letter which was why it took so long to reach me. Still, better safe than sorry given the circumstances. He warned me that his contacts in the newspaper business were starting to sniff round old Sacheverell again, and it was only a matter of time before his link to you came out.”

He took a deep breath. I did not know where to look; this was all terrible! I was ruined! 

“Your Mr. Garrick knew that the only way to defuse the situation was for you to be doing something to make amends for your grandfather's treachery”, he said. “My time is coming to an end and they have a rule about not keeping men out there too long, even if they say they want to. My commanding officer asked if I knew of a good doctor who could cover the next three years stint.”

I took a deep breath. My world had turned upside-down in the past few minutes, from about to move into a new home with my best friend to having been lied to by the same over my own damn family. 

Holmes sighed heavily.

“If you wish to go, doctor”, he said, his voice oddly monotone, “I would of course maintain our new rooms at Baker Street for your return.”

He did not even look at me as he spoke. I could not believe what was happening. So much for friendship. So much for nine damn years!

I turned to my cousin.

“I am in!” I said firmly.

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	5. Interlude: Secrets And Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. Oops again?

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I did not think that I could feel any lower that I did now. 

I was wrong.

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Watson had to all intents and purposes moved out already. In what had to have been our most painful conversation ever it had been agreed that we would maintain our new rooms at Baker Street. Fortunately the Army was paying a hefty premium to attract medical staff just then and that included covering his housing costs during his absence, so he would therefore have somewhere to return to when his three years were up.

 _If_ he ever returned, a quiet voice at the back of my mind whispered. Why would he come back to someone who had blatantly lied to him?

The worst thing had been the look of utter betrayal on his face as he had left, and frankly I would not have blamed him if he had not wanted to never come back. When I had come to understand the extent of the scandal surrounding his traitorous grandfather, the sensible thing would have been to exert all my efforts to make sure that it never saw the light of day. Instead I had lied to my friend and, as the scandal had loomed closer, simply tried to pretend that it was not there when I had destroyed that stupid telegram. I should have hated his cousin for what he had done but I was at least enough of a man to know not to; his life had been blighted already and he had tried to protect a family member. Besides I knew that his cousin had been right about his service; if the scandal came out now then at least it would be blunted by Watson serving the Army far more faithfully than his grandfather had done. A modern penance, so to speak.

My life was a mess. Yet incredibly, it was about to get even worse!

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I was still living at my parents' house prior to the move to Baker Street when I received a message from Miss St. Leger, asking me to come to Swordland's. I wondered if it was about the recent disaster area I had wrought in my life before I remembered; two weeks back I had received a letter from Mrs. Fulready whom Watson and I had assisted over the murder of her sister, Mrs. Garsdale (The Adventure Of The Unpowdered Nose) asking if I knew someone who could do some research for her over 'a delicate matter'. What with all the problems I myself had at the time I had recommended Miss St. Leger's agency; presumably at least that advice had been wise.

The young secretary welcomed me, and I could see at once that she was uneasy.

“Is this anything to do with Randall?” I asked. My unpleasant elder brother had demanded my help in a case the other week but I had been too preoccupied and he had mentioned that he might try Swordland's. She shook her head.

“He did come round”, she said, “but we declined to help him. He was not pleased and I had to escort him from the building. In a headlock.”

I smiled for possibly the first time in weeks. But she still looked grave.

“Your Mrs. Fulready had a letter that she wished to be checked out”, she said. “I am afraid that it turned out to be as bad as I had feared.”

“For her?” I asked, concernedly. She shook her head.

“No”, she said. _“For you!_

She took a deep breath. 

“As you know, Mrs. Fulready inherited her sister Mrs. Garsdale's house when she was murdered. She sold much of the furniture, but there was one large dresser that her sister had particularly wished to leave her. It was a little awkward for Mrs. Fulready as the item was, she thought, quite ugly, so she consigned it to a back room and ignored it.”

“Last month she decided to rent out the room the dresser had been placed in, so it had to be moved. One of her tenants saw it and told her that it was actually a rare German piece which was quite valuable. Since she had nowhere to easily put it she decided to sell it and donate the money to a charity that her late sister had supported. A local shop came and offered her a price which included its removal, but when they were going through it at the shop they found a letter taped to the inside of one of the doors. Naturally they returned it to Mrs. Fulready. That was what she wanted confirmed; if the contents of it were indeed true.”

“Were they?” I asked. She sighed.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

She looked hard at me. I was getting really worried.

“I am sorry to heap troubles upon those you already have”, she said, “but I am afraid that I have to touch on a most painful subject, Following the birth of Guilford your father and mother tried for another child, but the girl was stillborn. That was the autumn of 'Fifty-Three.”

“I know that”, I said. “So?”

She took a deep breath.

“After that, your father had what might be called a mental breakdown”, she said. “He had to go to a place in the country to recover, and was away some time. While he was away your mother.... sought solace with someone else. Fortunately for her she had had a brief meeting with your father in January of 'Fifty-Four so was able to pass you off as his, then she faked the hospital records to claim that you were a month premature.”

For someone who is supposedly a great detective I was far too slow to get it, but eventually I got there.

 _“Who?”_ I managed in a quiet voice that I hardly recognized coming from myself. “Who was – is – my father? Do you know?”

She nodded.

“Someone that you have never met”, she said. “But you have met both his sons - your half-brothers - and his grandson.

My eyes widened. That was impossible!

 _”The Hawkes?”_ I asked incredulously. _”Lord Sheridan?”_

“Your mother had an affair with Lord Sheridan in Christmas of 'Fifty-Three”, she said. “You were the result; I have statements from two of his servants to confirm it. You said that poor Lord Tobias looked like a grown version of you, and that his son Mr. Harry Buckingham was the image of him. Your half-brother and, I suppose, half-nephew. That was where the other half of your name came from; the first half of Sheridan.”

I grasped the table for support.

“I am sorry”, she said sincerely. “This must be terrible, coming on top of everything with the doctor. But as I think we both know, it is better for the truth to come out than to try to keep it back.”

 _Because if I had been honest with Watson I might still have him_ , I thought. _What a mess!_

I suddenly made a decision. With Watson gone I no longer wanted to be in London, the scene of all this..... all this. I needed to be away somewhere. Anywhere! Hell, my life could not be any worse! Two major shocks within a year.

I could not know then that it was two down, and one still to go.

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End file.
